The Lion's Heart
by SyrupylikeBreakfastinMontag
Summary: After the war, Harry is in Azkaban, imprisoned for the murder everyone once considered so necessary. The only person left to Harry is his cellmate, and given whom his cellmate is, that is no simple issue. HP/SS SS/HP Harry/Severus Severus/Harry Slash


The Lion's Heart

*Author's Note: Hi, guys! For those of you who are following me as an author and are currently thinking: "Hey! This isn't the next chapter of _Through the Puddles of Time_!" fear not! The next chapter for that story is almost done and will be posted in the next day or two. I just had the idea for this little one shot floating around in my mind, and I wanted to get it out. I hope you guys enjoy it!*

"_And as the world comes to an end_

_I'll be here to hold your hand_

'_Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart._

_A lionheart."_

-Of Monsters and Men _King and Lionheart_

Darkness. The room is always dark. Day, night, it makes no difference. No light filters in through these thick, stone walls. But Harry knows the room by heart anyway. He knows its touch, knows its damp, musty smell, the salty musk of the sea seeping in through the stone. It's the only aspect of the outside world that ever makes it in here. In every other way Harry is isolated, completely cut off. Harry lies on his cot, a bare mattress on a metal frame bolted to the ground. The mattress is scratchy on his skin, prickly, fibrous strands poking from its surface. No sheets, no pillow. Apparently one of the other prisoners managed to use his sheets to strangle himself, and now no one is allowed them. They have cast a few warming charms to keep the place from being too freezing, though. After all, now that Harry is in here, people suddenly seem to care at least a little about the prison's conditions.

Many of the people didn't want Harry in Azkaban. He was their hero, the Chosen One, the one who'd saved all their skins from the Dark Lord. But he'd had to murder to do it. And murder is murder. To kill another wizard means life in prison. No exceptions. Not even for The-Boy-Who-Lived. And there was that small fear in the back of their minds, the knowledge that for Harry to have been able to defeat Lord Voldemort he must be the more powerful of the two. And power is dangerous, a threat. Power can't be controlled, and that is unacceptable. So after a while, even Harry's staunchest protestors subsided. They may sit around their dinner tables and say: "Ridiculous isn't it? Such a shame. To put Harry Potter in Azkaban for saving us all. Completely ridiculous." But that is the extent of it. After all, it doesn't actually affect them. Not really. So Harry is stuck lying on this bed, staring up through the blackness at what he knows logically must be the ceiling. He's never actually seen the ceiling of his cell. For all he knows, the darkness could go on forever: a dormant black hole, too lazy to suck Harry in. It's too high for Harry to touch, even when he jumps. And touching is the closest one gets to vision in this place.

Most of the time, Harry works out. Pushups, jumping jacks, crunches, everything he used to do back in gym at his muggle school as a child. Anything to keep him moving. He likes the burn of it, the tight tension in his muscles. It reminds him that he's alive. That he made it through after all, even if he is stuck here. But for now, Harry lies still, splayed out on his back. In the black, he can hear faint breathing. Then the creaking of springs as his cellmate rolls over on his bed. Harry tilts his head, staring through the gloom at where he knows his roommate must be. It's strange, knowing there's another person there yet feeling so alone. Their cots are islands, floating in the same inky sea, yet separate. Two minds closed off, encased in iron skulls. Skulls that trap more thoroughly than any prison walls.

Harry had been so nervous when he first heard he was getting a cellmate. There are so many stories, horrible, horrible stories about what roommates have done to each other within these walls. Only calling them stories makes them seem unreal, distant. And these stories are all too real. The people sentenced to rot away in this tower of rock aren't sent here for giving money to the poor or helping little old ladies cross the street. These people are hard, driven by self-interest, and lust and a desire for power. Many of the people in here are people Harry has sent here himself, Death Eaters or Ministry of Magic officials who supported their regime. Cruel people. Rapists, torturers, murderers. People who would have nowhere to take out their frustration except for Harry. And then Harry had found out who his cellmate would be, and he knew that wouldn't happen, that it would be so much more complicated.

"You awake?" asks Harry. His voice sounds so loud in the silence, practically echoing off the walls, but really it's barely more than a whisper. Shifting, a rustling of fabric, the groan of springs.

"Yes, Potter," says a deep voice. A smooth voice, slightly rumbly around the edges. Familiar.

"Can I come over there?"

A pause. Contemplative silence. Then: "Yes." Harry sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of his cot. His bare feet hit stone, cold and smooth. He walks forward tentatively, hands outstretched and angled downwards where he knows his cellmate's bed will eventually meet them. Sure enough, his reaching fingers find soft fabric. He places one knee up onto the mattress, then lowers himself gingerly onto his side. Exploring fingers reach out, searching for the outline of the bed's other occupant. Harry's fingertips find bare skin, rounded, covering sharp bone. His cellmate's shoulder. He withdraws his hand quickly, tucking it beneath his cheek as a makeshift pillow. He can't touch any more than that. Not without permission. But he wanted to know where the other man was. Harry can feel the slight warmth radiating off his bedmate, soothing the goose bumps coating Harry's flesh. Even this close he has no idea what's passing through the other man's mind.

"Can I touch you?" asks Harry. He can feel his bedmate stiffen, instinctively recoiling. But it's just pride, an internal struggle Harry suspects centers around the word 'should'. He knows it will pass. He just needs to press a little bit more.

"Severus, can I?" he says. Then, finally, the other man relaxes. Severus rolls over, shifting to face Harry.

"Yes," he replies. And Harry's hands slide over warm skin. Up the other man's lightly haired arm, over his bony shoulder, up the column of his neck to glide over the raised flesh of the thin scar there, the bloody gash from Voldemort's spell. There are other scars from that night too on Severus' chest, Harry knows. Ridged puncture marks, barely healed over: dips caused by Nagini's long fangs. Harry runs his finger along the line briefly, then gently cups the other man's stubbly cheek. Everywhere else, the other man is all bones and hard angles, but his cheek is soft and pliant against Harry's palm. Severus lies perfectly still beneath Harry's hand, making no move to return the gesture. But he accepts it. Harry knows that acceptance isn't because of him. If there had been anyone else available Severus would never do this with him, but there isn't. Harry is the only option Severus has. But Harry is foolish enough to wish that the other man wanted him.

"I don't look like him anymore, you know," says Harry. "My father."

"What are you talking about?" asks Severus, and for once, there's emotion in his tone, even if it's just simple confusion. "I highly doubt that your face has changed so much these last few months."

"No," agrees Harry. "It hasn't. But you can't see it, can you? I mean, all I am is darkness to you, just like you are to me. So really, I could look like anything. I don't have to look like him to you anymore if that's what bothers you."

"What bothers me…" repeats Severus, rolling the words around on his tongue to get their taste. It's neither an affirmation, nor a denial. "Why do you think something must be bothering me?"

"We're in Azkaban," says Harry, a hint of a smile forming on his lips. "Something's got to be bothering you one way or another."

Severus grunts, a deep murmur of recognition. The closest Harry will probably ever get to a laugh from the other man.

"Your appearance does not disturb me, Potter," Severus says finally.

"Liar," says Harry. Silence.

"I'm not like him, though," continues Harry. "I'm not. I'm not a bully like that, not an attention-seeker. I know you think I am, but I'm not."

This place is getting to Harry, getting into his head, making him babble, say things he never would before. At least the dementors are gone now, untrustworthy after their desertion. But even without them, Harry worries this place will drive him insane. There's nothing to do, nowhere to go. Nothing but the thoughts echoing in his own mind: memories, doubts, regrets. Even without the dementors calling forth the darkest moments of Harry's life, they come anyway, unbidden, impossible to get rid of. All the people that died. People he might have saved. People who maybe could have lived if Harry had only been smarter, faster, better. If he hadn't been so lost and bumbling and young. If he'd been the hero they'd all expected him to be. He needs Severus to quiet these voices, to distract him from the pain. But there's just silence. Then, finally, the other man speaks.

"I no longer believe that you are," says Severus.

"Really?" asks Harry, surprised. He still remembers standing in Severus' office, the other man's wand at his throat. He remembers Severus' fury, the way he had shouted at Harry, his words harsh and filled with hate.

"_You're just like you father! Lazy, arrogant… weak!"_

Harry remembers Severus' face so clearly from that moment. The way his eyebrows dipped down to form angry v's above his eyes. The slight snarl of distaste that curled his upper lip. And his eyes: burning, furious, filled with contempt. How can such intense feelings be gone now, evaporated into thin air like smoke?

"Yes," says Severus. "I was wrong about you. I saw only what I wanted to see, saw only your discretions, your blatant abuse of authority. I admit that I was mistaken to ignore everything else. It was easier to be angry."

For a moment, Harry doesn't know what to say. He never thought he'd hear Severus say something like this, something so close to an actual apology.

"Why was it easier?" Harry finally asks. At first, Severus is silent. Then tentative fingers reach up to press against the hand still cupping Severus' face. Calloused fingertips run along Harry's fingers, tracing the curves of his knuckles. Rough, but gentle.

"Because I knew what it felt like to actually have something to lose," says Snape. "I could not admit that I cared what happened to you. Not when the chances of you coming out of the war alive were so slim. It was simpler to deceive myself, to tell myself you were nothing but your father's worst characteristics. Because if any of your mother was present there too… the fact that I might not be able to protect you would have been too hard." His voice is so melodic. Every few words it dips down, hitting the same soothing note. Deep and gravely, but smooth anyways. But Harry can barely process what that wonderful voice is saying to him. It seems so strange, so unlike the older man to confide something so personal in him. The fingers still contemplatively stroking his hand are even stranger.

"Why are you telling me this?" asks Harry.

"There is a lot of time to think in here," says Severus softly. "A lot of time to reflect. I see that I was wrong to treat you that way. It seems appropriate to make amends for that." Harry thinks this over for a minute.

"You were wrong about more than just that," he says. He can practically feel the other man glowering.

"If you are referring to my initial joining of the Death Eaters—" Severus begins, but Harry cuts him off before he can finish the thought.

"No," he says hurriedly. "I mean about not wanting to care. Caring is important. Essential, even. Caring about people is what made me fight so hard, what made the prophecy actually come true. And it seems to me that it's what gave you the most strength, too. Your love for my mother, hell, it was strong enough to keep you fighting for her seventeen years later. Long after she was already gone. Seems to me, caring was the best thing you ever did."

"Best and easy are not the same thing," murmurs Severus.

"No," agrees Harry. "They're not."

The pair lies there in silence, lost in thought. That's all there is in this place, after all: thought. Thought and memory and the time that never ticks away fast enough.

"Things are never going to be the same, are they?" asks Harry, his voice thin, wavering. "The world isn't just going to pause and wait for us. Things are still happening out there without us. And we're just stuck in here, waiting, getting left behind."

"Yes," agrees Severus. "That is probably correct. Although, I find that has a way of happening even when one isn't in prison. Time moves on, Potter. No matter what. It is one of the few things in life one can truly count on."

"Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine?" comments Harry.

"Have we met?" quips Severus, and Harry finds himself giggling, shocked at an actual joke from the other man's thin lips. The fingers on Harry's hand tighten at the cheerful sound.

"Maybe it's for the best that I'm in here," murmurs Harry, his tone growing serious again.

"How so?" asks Severus dubiously.

"Well, the war is over now," says Harry. "That war was what I was really meant for. Killing Voldemort will be the biggest thing I ever do in my entire life. It's what I was raised for, why Dumbledore trained me and protected me all those years. I don't know what I'd do, really, now that that's over with."

"_You've kept him alive so that he can die at the proper moment. You've been raising him like a pit for slaughter!" shouts Severus, pacing Dumbledore's office like a panther in a cage. His black cloak swirls and billows around him. Dumbledore just watches him calmly, a hint of sadness in his eyes._

_ "Don't tell me now that you've grown to care for the boy?"_

"That's nonsense," snaps Severus, a hint of anger throbbing through his words. "Don't say such ridiculous things or I may have to rethink whether or not you really are just as foolish as your father was. Your role in the war was important, yes. But your life did not end with it. With the war over with, you would have gone on to have quite a nice, meaningful life, I am sure. You probably would have married the little Weasley girl and popped out a bunch of red-headed minions like the rest of their oversized family. You still can someday. The war will not be your entire life, Potter."

"It almost was," says Harry softly. "I died for it. Died to save everyone, just like you told me to, the way Dumbledore planned all along. It's only luck that I got to come back." Silence, thick and heavy with guilt and regret.

"I did not know at first," Severus says finally. "If there had been another way..."

"It's alright," says Harry. "You don't have to explain. I saw it all in your memories, anyway. It was something worth dying for. I would do it again in a heartbeat if I had to. It's a cause you died for, too."

"And here we are," murmurs Severus, "just bathing in everyone's gratitude."

"You must be used to that by now, though," Harry says. "Your role in all of this was harder than mine, really. At least I got to be the hero for a little while. You had to endure all of us thinking you were the villain until it was almost too late. If I hadn't gotten to you in time, if I hadn't collected those memories…"

"Think nothing of it," says Severus, cutting Harry off. "It would not have mattered."

"Of course it would have," says Harry firmly. "It made all the difference."

"It does not seem so, Potter," Severus drawls. "I am, after all, still trapped in this cell. Now, it is merely more frustrating to be so."

"Well, it makes a difference to me," says Harry. "Knowing all the things you really did for me changes everything. For me, at least."

"I see," replies Severus. The words are nothing, just polite filler, but there's thought behind them, real contemplation over what Harry has just admitted, how this changes things between them. And really, in this dark cell in a tall tower of rock time cannot seem to find, the relationship between them is all that's left. Without it, there is only darkness, the distant sloshing of the sea. And hours that refuse to pass. Hours that pass so quickly elsewhere.

Harry removes his hand from the other man's cheek. Severus quickly withdraws his own fingers, slightly taken aback. Then Harry scoots forwards, inching towards the older man until his stomach is pressed gently against Severus' side. Gingerly, knowing the risk he's taking, he rests his head on the other man's shoulder. Severus lies stiff beneath him, rigid like a corpse suffering from rigor mortis, but he does not push Harry away.

This is all they have.

Harry drapes his arm slowly across Severus chest, curling his fingers around the other man's forearm. Severus' chest is bare, smooth and warm against his skin. Bony ribs protrude out, rippling Severus' skin into rollercoaster waves. He's so thin, thin and long and narrow. He must be pale, too, Harry knows. He already was almost ghostly before, and now they've both been kept from the sun for months. But Harry cannot see; he can only feel.

He can feel Severus' breath on the top of his head, rhythmic puffs of warmth seeping into his hair. Then, slowly, Severus' arm moves beneath Harry, shifting, pulling free of the weight that crushes it. The arm coils around Harry's back, a flat palm settling on Harry's shoulder blade. Victory. Filled with Gryffindor recklessness, Harry decides to press his luck even farther. He runs his hand along the length of Severus' sinewy arm, an explorative caress. Gradually, the length of the strokes increases, moving up towards Severus' bony shoulder and down towards long, slender fingers.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Then Harry's hand slides down past pointed fingertips to grasp a sharp hipbone through thin fabric. The hand on Harry's shoulder instantly tightens, a reflexive tensing of muscles. But that is the extent of Severus' protest. Gradually, the pressure lessens. Severus' hand relaxes. Harry runs his thumb along the seam of the man's pajama-like bottoms. The fabric is gathered there, rouched above a thin band of elastic.

"May I?" he asks quietly. He needs to hear it, needs the permission, the acknowledgment that the other man wants this, too. For a moment, there is just silence. Harry leaves his thumb perched, pressing gently against the soft fabric of Severus' bottoms: a silent question to accompany the vocal one. Then Severus exhales a long, shuddering breath.

"Yes," he murmurs. His voice is so deep, so smooth. It sends tingles down Harry's spine. He dips his hand beneath the fabric of the other man's pants, the elastic bending easily to allow Harry access. The angle of Harry's elbow is slightly awkward, but he can't bring himself to care as he wraps his fingers around the older man's stirring member. Experimentally, Harry runs his hands along Severus' length, memorizing the feel of it in his hand. He presses harder, cupping the man's member in his palm. He can feel it growing in his hand, hardening with each slow stroke. It feels heavy, the skin thick and a bit soft, like velvet. Every time he reaches the base of Severus' cock, he can feel dense curls against the back of his hand, thick and springy. He knows they must be inky black, like Severus hair, but he cannot see. Perhaps, he never will.

Severus shifts beneath Harry's hands, scooting to lie at a slight angle so that he's at least partially facing Harry. He does not move to kiss Harry. Neither of them do. Instead, he reaches down with his free hand to cup the erection tenting Harry's pants, slender fingers squeezing it through thin fabric. Harry shivers slightly at the touch, a quiet moan blossoming in his throat. It's been so long since someone has touched him like this. Severus lets go, slipping beneath Harry's pants to grasp him again, stroking him in a firm rhythm, the movements almost clinical in their precision.

Harry massages Severus' erection more firmly, increasing his pace. He runs his thumb over the head of the other man's cock at the end of each stroke. It's a different texture than the rest of his penis: smoother and firmer, the skin less loose and mobile over the muscle beneath. Beads of liquid are forming there, slippery droplets Harry uses to lubricate the rest of Severus' cock.

The pressure on Harry's own erection feels wonderful. Coils of heat are pooling in Harry's stomach, tightening below his groin: a pressure calling out to be released. His body is so warm, so utterly full of heat. It has to go somewhere.

Harry strokes the other man faster, harder, his arm muscles aching dully with the strain and the uncomfortable angle. But he can feel Severus' hips bucking beneath his hand now, can hear him panting dangerously moan-like exhales. He's beginning to unwind, to show Harry a weakness Harry is dying to see, so Harry continues. And then Severus shudders next to him, a brief quiver of muscles as his cock spasms and warm liquid splashes against Harry's still pumping hand. Harry continues to massage the twitching organ until it's spent, stilling in Harry's palm. Severus' hand has relaxed, dropping from Harry's still painfully erect penis in the throes of his orgasm, but Harry doesn't mind. For now, for this first time, he understands. He grabs his own cock, his hand slick with Severus' cum and pumps. It doesn't take long. In just a few strokes, Harry is shuddering, his own release spurting out onto Severus' thigh. They lie there next to each other, their faces mere inches apart, catching their breath. They do not touch, just enjoy the other's proximity.

"Someday I'll get us out of here," says Harry earnestly, the words barely more than a whisper. "I'll find a way. I promise. You won't be stuck in here forever, Severus. I'll find a way."

"Don't be a fool," murmurs Severus, but there's no bite to his words, only grim resignation. "That is a promise you cannot possibly keep."

"Yeah, well, I've never been very good with can't," says Harry, staring at the patch of darkness he knows must house Severus' face. "People keep telling it to me, and I just keep doing the supposedly impossible anyways. I killed the most powerful dark wizard of all time. This is just a pile of rock in the middle of the ocean. I'll find a way out of here."

"Imbecile," accuses Severus, but there's a lightness to his voice, a shadow of amusement.

"No, you'll see," insists Harry. He reaches out with cum stained fingers, tracing gentle spirals into Severus' side. "This won't be the end of your story. This won't be the thanks you get. I promise." Severus doesn't reply. Instead, he just leans forwards, pressing his forehead against the firm curve of Harry's skull. Silent disapproval. Silent appreciation. Complicated, as ever.

Around them, the stone walls are thick and impermeable. But outside, the sea waves bash against the stone, running over and over the same patches of soaked rock. Incessant and unceasing. And over time, water can wash away even the toughest of stone.

"_And in the sea that's painted black_

_Creatures lurk below the deck_

_But you're the king, and I'm a lionheart._

_A lionheart."_

-Of Monsters and Men _King and Lionheart_

_*_Author's Note: Well, there you have it. I hope you enjoyed this smutty little story. I just really wanted to write an in Azkaban story. I've probably just been watching too much _Orange is the New Black _(a great show by the way in case any of you haven't seen it). Please review with any feedback you may have! I love you hear from you guys! Also, if any of you have any requests, I'm happy to hear them. Thanks for reading!*


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